


I Fucked My Way Up to the Top

by BlackWinged



Category: Lana Del Rey - Fandom, Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:45:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2300264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackWinged/pseuds/BlackWinged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Axl Rose rumored to be dating Lana Del Rey"</i><br/><i>"Shock-rocker Marilyn Manson spotted canoodling with Lana Del Rey"</i><br/>The thing about gossip magazines is they tend to spread the same rumor over and over again. The only part that changes are the names.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	I Fucked My Way Up to the Top

**Author's Note:**

> To better understand this story, here are some real life facts about Lana Del Rey. She studied metaphysics in college, her life goal was to become a poet, she grew up loving Guns N' Roses (having recorded songs such as _Axl Rose Husband_ and _Guns and Roses_ ), and, after achieving artistic success while under constant criticism, she managed to live out some of her childhood dreams by getting to hang out with [Axl Rose](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2126609/Lana-Del-Rey-Guns-N-Roses-rocker-Axl-Rose-leave-LA-hotel-night-out.html) and even [Marilyn Manson](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-YHtMYYbbC4g/VAXQfyjWMlI/AAAAAAAABv4/5jxGXsLmUWA/s512/lana-manson.jpg), amongst other celebrities.  
> Consider [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Py_-3di1yx0) a crash introduction into her universe.  
>   
> \---  
> As we have established the facts, everything else that is to follow from here on is purely fiction. No offense is meant to any celebrities mentioned in this story or fans thereof.

Another glass of vodka on the rocks gets poured, before being slid down the bar, into the anxious grasp of the pale man waiting for his refill. His soot black hair is shielding most of his face, a military cap pulled down low over his eyes, a sign for the curious patrons of the club to keep their gawking at a minimum.

His clunky platform boots tap against the bottom railing surrounding the bar, in beat with the rock music blaring from the speakers. The whole place feels like a grimy biker's bar you'd find on a remote highway. The kind you'd walk into by mistake, as you look for a payphone or a mechanic to fix your flat tire, before the local leather-clad gang comes beat the shit out of you just for finding yourself in the wrong part of town.

He sips on the transparent liquid in front of him, knowing it would help dissolve his paranoia, as he eyes the room, noticing the crowd forming behind him.

_"Shit, I've been spotted. It's only been... what?... two minutes since I've sat down,"_ he thinks.  
"Come on, let's go." He gestures for his friend to finish his drink.

Grabbing his glass, he downs it all in one go, getting up, as they prepare to make their way out.

A girl runs behind him, tapping his shoulder.  
"...Excuse me?"

He turns around, lowering his sunglasses - not necessarily a rockstar indulgence, but after the right amount of drug intake, even the club lights start to feel overwhelming - and looks her up and down. She's a pretty little thing, slim and well proportioned, curvy in all the right places, her ass spilling out of her cut up jean hot pants, her cleavage as low as her bellybutton.

"Ummm," she says, giggling slightly, as she half-turns on her heel towards her group of pals encouraging her to approach him. "My friends and I were just looking at you and... we were wondering... are you, by any chance, _Mary_ Manson?"

Manson's leering smile disappears, her figure suddenly losing any hint of attractiveness to him. Somehow, the disproportion between tits and grey matter never ceased to disappoint him.  
"If it's the Holy Virgin you'd like to talk to, I'm afraid you're looking in the wrong place," he replies dryly, as he walks out the door, together with the friend he'd brought along for the evening.

Across the street, he can see the large group of paparazzi, hungrily waiting for a juicy shot of... well, anything really. They could take even the tamest photo and pair it with a title so outrageous that they'd be sure to have all the copies of the magazines or newspapers they were working for sold out by noon the next day.

"Fuckers. How the hell did they even know I was here?" Marilyn mumbles under his breath, dreading having to face them.

A sea of flashes suddenly goes off, drowning the entire street in light, blinding all passers-by. "Maybe they didn't come for you this time," the other man says, noticing that they were all facing the other way, photographing a car that was just pulling up into the parking spot.

"Who the fuck for then?" Manson asks, rising on his toes, trying to get a better look across the street.

An older man pulls the keys out of the ignition, stepping out. _"No press, please,"_ he says, annoyed, shielding his eyes from the unforgiving light.

"Can you see anything?" Manson tells his friend.

"I, uh... I think there's a chick still in the car," he replies. "Wait. She's getting out now."

"Who is that?" the rocker asks, trying to understand what the paparazzi would want to do with them.

"Man, isn't that Axl Rose?" his friend says, pointing to the redhead going over to shield the woman away from the swarming press.

"Shit. I think it is!" Manson agrees.

_"Lana, Lana! Are the two of you dating? How long have you been seeing each other? Is it serious between you?"_ The questions are fired at them from all sides.

The woman smiles, looking away, as the pair crosses the street, working hard on ignoring the chaos around them.

The press walks right by Marilyn Manson and his road buddy, too caught up in snapping pictures of the other celebrities that were entering the famous local club.

"That's Hollywood for you," Manson tells his friend, with a shrug.

"Man, why did we have to leave? It's, like, the nicest place around. Where else do you think we can get in at this time of night?" the guy asks, raising his sleeve to check his watch.

The rocker sighs, pulling an annoyed face. "I just can't. I can't stand people fawning over me when I want to have a night out. Do you know a girl in there called me Mary?"

The other man chuckles. "So? You could've got laid. You know all she wanted to hear was you telling her you were famous."

"I'm sorry, but that type of stupidity just instantly makes my dick soft," he replies.

"You've become picky over the years, man," his friend says, shaking his head.

"Yeah, well, I'm a rockstar now. What did you expect?" he jokes.

Walking down the street, they come across a 7-Eleven, and decide to wander in. They pick up some beers and a pack of cigarettes before making their way out again.

"What now?" the man asks.

"We can sit here and drink," Marilyn offers, finding a spot on the pavement, as he pulls the paper bag near, choosing a can from inside of it.

"You know, for someone famous, you sure do live a crusty lifestyle," the guy says.

Manson smirks, amused. "I'm not sure if that's supposed to be a compliment or an insult."

"Hey, boys, looking for a little fun?" an older looking woman interrupts their conversation, her bruised legs covered in fishnet stockings, her hair bleached blonde and styled in a trend that is sure to have died with the end of the '80s.

"Uh, no, thanks," Manson replies, shaking his head.

"How much?" his friend asks her.

"...You're joking?" the rocker tells him, taken by surprise.

"Honey, how about you let your friend here make his own decisions?" the woman says in a threatening tone, worried that he might ruin her chance to close the deal.

"...It's not like there's anything better for me to do tonight," the guy responds to his friend, shrugging.  
"So, like, do you have a place nearby or something?" he asks, turning to the woman past her prime.

She smiles, content that business is going well this evening. "Yeah, we can go to the motel around the corner here," she explains, pointing to the direction.

Manson sighs, annoyed.

"Come on, man. I bet she can find a friend of hers back there for you as well," the guy tells him, as he gestures for him to follow them.

"Uh... thanks, but paying for sex isn't really how I like to get down," Manson passes on his offer, but continues to keep up with the two.

"Okay, but don't blame me if you start getting bored waiting for me out there," he says, wrapping his arm around the older woman's shoulders.

"You can always change your mind, you know? I've got some nice girls that I could get down here if I make a few calls," she suggests.

The rocker waves his hand in the air dismissively, shuddering at the thought of a dirty motel room filled with old hags. "I think I'll pass."

Reaching the motel, the group walks inside the reception area, where the woman just nods at the man behind the front desk who hands her a key, no question asked.

Manson raises an eyebrow, wondering if the guy also made a few bucks on the side by acting as a pimp during his official working hours.

"Hey, man, you sure you don't want in on this?" his friend asks, as they go outside, heading for their room.

"You just do whatever it is you're into. I'll be out here when you're done," he answers flatly, obviously not happy with the arrangement.

He watches them go up the stairs, the woman opening a door before they retreat in one of the hotel's rooms.

Manson sighs, shaking his head. Somehow, no matter where he was, no matter how big he'd become over the years, he still found himself in the same shitty situations. Alone, in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do, just feeling lousy and waiting for something to happen to save him from the boredom of a dead city.

He pats his pockets, pulling out his lighter, but nothing else. "Fucker took my smokes with him," he growls under his breath, kicking dust into the wind. He takes a deep breath in, his shoulders dropping as he exhales.

Well, he could wait until the guy's little gerontophilia episode was over - hopefully he was a quick shooter, so they could just get the hell out of there in a few minutes... Or he could just leave the asshole there and find his way back to the tour bus himself.

On second thought, he wasn't quite sure how the fuck they got here in the first place, less of all where their bus was right now. He rolls his eyes, annoyed that his entire night depended on his old friend who just happened to live in the city they played a festival for.

He checks his watch, wondering how long 'granny's' standard act usually lasted.  
Damn, he could really use a cigarette right about now, to make the time go by faster.

Looking around, he sees nothing in sight other than a relatively empty parking lot and a few abandoned shops whose display windows had long since been busted up for fun by the neighborhood vandals.

The supermarket they'd picked up the woman from didn't seem to be that far behind, and, since he doesn't really have anything better to occupy his time with, he might as well head back there and get his fix.

Twenty minutes later, he's now walking back to the motel, a lit cigarette dangling between his lips, before he pulls it out of his mouth, blowing on his fingers to warm them up.  
 _"Damn, they'd better be finished about now. It's getting really cold out here,"_ he thinks, buttoning up his black coat.

A car dashes out of the side street he's crossing and almost runs him over, making him drop his burning cigarette.

"The fuck you watch where you're driving, asshole!" Manson screams in a hoarse voice, his heart beating so hard it's about to leap out of his chest, but the driver just ignores him and speeds off down the road.

"Fucking piece of shit city... wrinkled up prostitutes and drunk drivers... tell them not to book me down here for a show again," he mumbles to himself, still a bit shaken up, pulling on the collar of his jacket, seeking warmth.

Reaching the parking lot of the motel again, he walks up to a corner and fishes out the pack of cigarettes he's just bought from the supermarket, taking one to his lips and cupping his hand over it as lights it, watching the white paper slowly begin to curl under the flame.

A female voice is heard in the middle of the night, from out of nowhere. "Hey, yeah, it's me... I- I know. I know it's late, but... Yeah, I know you told me not to call you at home, but you wouldn't answer any of my other calls and... I miss you. Oh God, baby, I miss you... No, I do. I do remember... I know we agreed, but... Have you been thinking about me?... Just tell me. Please?" Her voice cracks, and he can hear her sniffle. "...I need you in my life. You can't just push me out because of her." She's downright crying now. "...Hello? Hello?"

Manson takes a few steps forward, looking up at the open platform of the upper floor.

"...He hung up on me!" the woman cries out to no one in particular, angrily kicking the metal railing of the motel's first floor.

She's wearing a short, white lace dress, her sleeves covering her hands, and her hair free, wildly pacing up and down the open corridor in her bare feet, sobbing uncontrollably. Suddenly, she stops, and he wonders if he's finally been spotted, but, instead, she just grabs something off the floor. Getting back up, he can see her take a large bottle of Jack Daniels and toss her head back, taking greedy gulps out of it.

Swinging the bottle in front of her, she walks to the edge of the upper floor again and leans on the railing, her other hand messily wiping away the tears that are furiously running down her face. She stretches her arms in front of her, as if she was floating on water, and gradually begins to tip forward, her entire body weight leaning on her stomach, as she bends over the railing.

"Lana! Don't! Don't do it!" he suddenly yells, alarmed that she would soon fall over.

The woman instantly straightens back to a standing position, her long hair whipping the air as she raises herself up.

"What's it to you?" she asks, slurring her words, her voice thick from whiskey.

"Just wouldn't want you to die on my watch," he says, making his way up the stairs.

She scoffs. "Oh, but it would be totally okay if it were on someone else's?"

He nods, figuring that making conversation - any kind of conversation at all - was a good way to get someone to stop fixating on burying themselves into a hole, whether metaphorical or not.  
"Something like that," he jokes.

As he finally reaches the floor she's on, she takes a step back, eyeing the bottle she's holding and then looking back at him, her face lost in confusion. "I must have had too much to drink because..." she laughs, more from the alcohol than the actual humor of the situation, "you look just like Marilyn Manson."

He smiles. "In the flesh. You know you're the first person to get my name right tonight?"

"Well, well, well... they dump me out here to get me away from celebrities, only for me to meet Mr. Manson himself." She rises the bottle up in the air, before saying, "It was nice to meet you, Marilyn, but, if you don't mind, I have to get the hell out of this shithole."

"Hey, hold on," he says, catching her scrawny frame in his arms, as she pours into his embrace like liquid sand, her whiskey intake making her unsteady. "You don't really look like you're in the state to be making any favorable decisions for yourself right now. So why don't we just hang out here for a while, say, until morning? I'm just waiting for someone, but we can drop you off to wherever you're staying. Maybe call a friend?"

She scoffs. "'A friend.' You've been in the limelight longer than I have. You should have found out already that there are no friends waiting for you out there."  
She pushes his arms off of her, her curved red painted nails scratching his skin, trying to make her way past him.

"I'm serious. I'm not letting you go anywhere," he tells her sternly.

She takes a step back and gives him a long look. "Why do you even care?"

He shakes his head, unable to give her a real answer as to why people feel compassion and want to prevent accidents from happening. "Because, seeing as how I'm around, they're bound to pin your death on me. You kill yourself - by doing drugs, throwing yourself off a bridge or whatever -, they spot me anywhere near a ten mile radius and find a way to blame me for it. It'll be Columbine all over again."

She pushes into his chest, her liquor sloshing in the bottle and spilling on his shirt. "Ha! I knew you weren't doing it for me! No one gives a shit!"

He fights to take control over the Jack Daniels she's holding, but finds she simply won't loosen her grip, and eventually gives up. "I was only being sarcastic. Of course I give a shit. Despite what all these money-hungry journalists keep writing about me, I do not eat children for breakfast and I do not thrive on people's deaths."

"Fucking assholes," she mumbles, suddenly remembering part of the reason she got so angry tonight, her 'Trust no one' tattoo curling into an angry fist. "There should be a law against these people - harassing, lying and suing their way into making fortunes off of other people's backs. Fucking vultures!"

"How would you know? You're young, you're an attractive woman, you're the latest trend... these guys eat you up with a spoon," Marilyn says skeptically.

"Yeah, right," she replies, rolling her eyes. "...And then spit me out again. Do you even know the type of shit I have to put up with? Being paired off with anyone from the janitor to the latest artist I happen to strike up a conversation with on my way to the stage, at any given time? All they write about me is how everything I do is wrong. When I do manage to get something right - in their eyes - it's always because of some guy calling all the shots, who's 'making' my success for me because I'm sucking his dick. The concept of a woman managing to do anything on her own terms and through her own work is simply an idea outside their grasp."

He looks at her, surprised, not really expecting her to be anything more than a kid who's had their first taste of fame. "It's nothing new, you know? They talk about me dating all sorts of girls all the time as well. As a pop star, the worst you're probably going to get is someone criticizing your dress at some red carpet event."

"Fuck you," she hisses, punching his upper arm, watching him rub the spot, amused that he's managed to get to her. "First of all, I play sadcore, not fucking pop. And, second of all, do not even begin on telling me how you, men, have it the same as we, women do. Don't even think about it. When the fuck did someone accuse you that _any_ of your songs weren't actually yours, but were written by someone you were fucking? When was the last time someone told you that the only reason the album you're most proud of even made it was because you screwed your way up the music hierarchy?"

Manson raises his eyebrows, tilting his head back. "Well... I'll give you that.  
But then, why would you deliberately go out of your way to attract attention by going to places known to have paparazzi swarming outside, like that club tonight?"

"...You were there?" she asks, taken by surprise.

"I was outside, but I saw you go in... with Axl Rose of all people!" Manson tells her, pulling a disgusted face.

"It wasn't like I had planned it for paparazzi to follow us around. Jesus!" she raises her voice, turning her back against the railing and sliding all the way down to the floor, the forged metal bars leaning her back for support.

The rocker joins her, curling his legs under him. "Why did you go there then?"

"Listen... we had just met... we've been playing the same festival, okay?" she begins.

He nods. "Yeah, I headlined there yesterday."

"Okay, cool. So we both have meet & greets on the same day, and then I run into him backstage, you know? I'm, like, totally babbling when I meet him because... well, let's just say I grew up with Guns N' Roses posters on all of my walls instead of wallpaper," she continues.

Manson scrunches his nose, trying to imagine what her rebellious teenage bedroom must have looked like.

"And he's just... he's just super sweet and nice to me. And he starts telling me he likes my voice and that he has my CD in his car... and I just lose it. I mean, my celebrity crush has just told me he's been listening to _me_! Can you imagine that?" she says, completely excited as she remembers. "So then, as we continue talking, he tells me he wants to hit the clubs, and if I'd like to come with him. What am I, an idiot? Of course I said 'yes'! So here we are, arriving to this club, and, somehow, the press gets a hold of it, and they're snapping pictures like crazy. Then, when we get inside, Axl and I really hit it off. He starts telling me stuff about his childhood, about how life was for him when his band first got signed, his trouble with the law... you know, just giving me a lot of insight."

"Hey, we've all had trouble with the law," Manson says, as if it's a requirement to achieve stardom.

"Then, some fans start to annoy him by getting too close. You know, we just wanted to have a few drinks and talk, but people kept pushing him for pictures and autographs. He was okay with it at first but, after a while, it just got out of hand. So he suggested we leave."

"Yeah, that's the worst part of it," he agrees.

"But, as we get to the car, I ask him if he wouldn't want us to just go back to his hotel instead. There wasn't going to be anyone else to bother us over there. And I really did offer it only for us to continue our conversation, and I thought I had made that clear enough to him. There were no ulterior motives involved in it at all."

"Unfortunately, that's not how the press sees it," he tells her.

"That's exactly what he said! He said being seen with me is 'bad publicity' and that I would be harming both my and his reputation by allowing myself to get in such a situation. He refused to even drive me there. So he just took me to this motel and dumped me here, saying he couldn't get involved with me, then drove off."

"Wait... was he driving a black SUV?" Manson asks.

"Yes, I think so." She nods.

"Fucker almost ran me over!" he shrieks.

"...That's how fast he was trying to get rid of me," she tells him. "I still can't believe he imagined I was offering to sleep with him just to get on the front page of some newspaper."

"Not to be an asshole here, but I kinda get where's he's coming from. I mean, I've had girls act like they're into me only so that they could get a bit of press time. All the B-list actresses I've been with only got famous the moment we fucked. And it wasn't anything I take credit for. It was all their own plan," he explains.

"I'm pretty sure that since I've got to the point where I'm sharing the stage with Guns N' Roses and Marilyn Manson, I've already hit my peak. And there's no amount of dick that can take me anywhere else I'd rather be than where I currently am," she comments dryly.

Manson smirks, turning his head as he looks at Lana, her hair blowing in the soft night wind. "You know, I really like you. You don't hold back from saying what you think."

"Yeah... and look where that's got me," she says, sighing, grabbing the bottle from next to her and letting the caramel colored liquid hit her full, pouty lips once more. "My man says it's my mouth that got me to the top - you know, music and lyrics -, and that it's my mouth that is going to bring my downfall as well. But what does he know? He's too fucked up to even tell his wife's pussy from mine, let alone be handing out life advice."

He leans back on his elbow, watching her squeeze her feet through the wrought iron railing embellishment, her legs now dangling over the edge of the first floor. "Is that who you were talking to earlier?"

She gives him a surprised look.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to listen in. I just happened to be around when you were talking on the phone," he confesses.

She sighs. "Yeah, that was him alright. A couple of weeks ago he comes in saying we can't see each other anymore. I ask why. He says his wife's knocked up. So I ask what that has to do with us. Suddenly, he's decided he's going to turn into Mr. family man. Apparently, having a kid on the way's made him see things from a new perspective. And there's no room for me in this new life of his anymore."

Manson tries to say something, but changes his mind. Tapping his dark lips, he has another go at it. "Sorry to be asking you this, but... why exactly did you accept to be this guy's mistress in the first place?"

Lana laughs, shaking her head. "Oh, darling. It's not just me. He has dozens of other girls on the side, waiting for him."

"That makes it even worse!" he exclaims, in disbelief.

"Yeah, but I'm his favorite one," she tells him, turning her eyes to the starry sky, and watching the moon dreamily.

"...You... are aware he tells that to all of those girls, right?" he asks, doubting she could ever be that credulous.

"It doesn't matter," she says, swinging her long legs over the railing, making belief she was in the swing set in her childhood back yard. "I love him."

"Even now?" Manson asks, having a hard time understanding her reasons.

"Especially now. I'm sure he doesn't love her an ounce more now that she's pregnant than he did before. But he feels he has to do this. Because that's the kind of man he is," she says, sticking up for him.

"...Uh, no. He's the kind of man sleeping with a dozen women behind his wife's back. And, listen, I don't know who these girls are. Maybe they need his money, maybe he can make them famous. But what the hell's in this for you? You've already got everything you need," he asks her.

Lana looks down, smiling sadly. "Do I?" She bites her lip, watching the passing lights of cars driving by on the highway. "What does money, power or glory mean when the only thing you really want is love?"

"Well, why not find a guy who's willing to give that to you? Exclusively. I'm sure there are guys your age out there who would give their right arm to be with a wild child like you. They'd fucking drink your bathwater if you'd let them, and treat you like a princess."

Her eyes gleam with a watery film for a second, before it rolls into a single tear running down her cheek. "Because I've never been good at finding someone who's right for me. At keeping a decent lifestyle. At having a healthy relationship. I only know what fucked up feels like. What being the other woman implies. And what older, unavailable men want. That's what I'm best at. And I'm not going to waste my time looking for anything that just won't suit me."

Manson's face turns into a picture of sadness. Never before has he seen a girl this young and talented and so broken before.  
"Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. It's not my place to interfere," he adds after a quiet pause, watching her dry her tears on her white bell sleeves.

For a moment he wonders if he's been of any help to her at all tonight, or if he's just made matters worse by making her dwell on her problems.

She pulls her legs out from in between the embellished railing and curls onto the concrete floor.

"Don't lay down on that. It'll ruin your dress and you'll catch a cold," he tells her, pulling her up by her arms. "Damn, you're freezing!" he exclaims, feeling her tremble in his embrace. "Your hands feel like icicles. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I couldn't feel it," she mumbles under her breath, shivering beside him.

"I'm gonna go to reception and get a room, okay? You stay put," he tells her, getting worried by her pallor.

She looks up at him, cocking her head to the side. "How fast do you think the reporters will get here once the reception tips them off that Marilyn Manson and Lana Del Rey have taken a room together?"

He stops in his tracks and frowns. "So it's a bad idea then..."

She shrugs. "No, no. Getting a room is a good idea. I was just telling you what to expect because of it."

He walks back and pulls her up to him, her thin fingers hooking around his oversized silver rings. "Fuck it. We're not staying out here in this cold a second longer."

"Wait," she tells him, turning around and grabbing the pair of wedge sandals she had taken off, dangling them over her shoulder, the half finished bottle of whiskey completing her outfit.

Walking to the side of the building, Manson looks through one of the windows, and listens in. Convinced that it is unoccupied, he takes a few steps back, before running into the door at full speed, kicking it open.

"Wow, wasn't expecting that." She giggles, watching him hold his shoulder, which was probably going to bruise from impact.

"They can't report something they don't know is happening," he explains, turning on the light and closing the door behind her, as she steps in.

He walks around the room, opening the dresser and pulling out the extra blanket stored on the top drawer. "Come on, you need to warm up. Get in," he tells her, pulling the covers off the bed and inviting to tuck her in.

She looks at him and smiles, curious. "Aren't you going to get under here as well?"

"I'm dressed better than you are, so I'm not as cold," he says, waving her off.

"Please?" she asks, giving him a girly pout.

"I'm getting next to you, but you can keep all the blankets," he tells her, now pushing all the thick fabric around her, into a cocoon.

She watches him lay down beside her, obviously choosing a very awkward position in which to relax.

"You know, for the Prince of Darkness, you're really not half as bad as they say you are," Lana confesses, half joking.

"Uh, you're thinking of Ozzy there," he corrects her, amused.

"The Lord...?" she suggests, trying to remember the way the media liked to refer to him.

"Nope. Not an ounce of royalty found in me, I'm afraid. I'm not a prince, lord, count, king, or anything else of that kind, unfortunately," he says, shrugging.

"Then what? I know they call you something, but..." she says, frustrated about her momentary lapse.

Manson smirks. "The God of Fuck."

She lets her head fall back against the pillows and laughs loudly. "Yes! God of Fuck! I knew it was something..."

"See... I'm a deity. Much more powerful than any nobility title other rockstars have opted for," he explains smugly.

"A god in fucking, huh?" she asks, laughing slightly. "That's gotta be some trip."

He puts on a serious face. "Sometimes I feel people just like me for my big dick. And that makes me sad," he jokes.

She kicks the blankets off of her and begins to jump on the bed. "You have to show me!"

He laughs. "No. Now get down before you fall over."

"Come on, show me!" she chants, the bed's worn springs creaking under her weight.

"Get back in bed. You don't need to be seeing any more old man's shriveled up dick than you already have," he teases her.

She throws herself on her knees on the bed and grabs a pillow, playfully hitting him over the face with it. "You ass!"

"Ass, dick... make up your mind, lady!" he counteracts, rearranging his choppy black hair.

Their laughter dies down a bit, and she advances, now moving over his legs.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea..." he begins, his hands trying to catch her arms.

She squirms, giggling, and straddles him, her hand gliding over his crotch, as she leans down and opens her mouth over his lips.

He gently turns his head, their lips only just brushing together for a moment, as he rolls her back to her spot on the bed, covering her in blankets once more.

"Hey, Lana, I think you're fucking beautiful. I really do. You've got charm and a personality like I've never seen before. But you're also really drunk right now. And, as much as you make me wish I had a wife to cheat on with you," he adds in his usual dark humor, "there's just no way I'm going to take advantage of the state you're in right now." He pulls the blankets up to her neck and gets off the bed.

"Where are you going?" she asks quietly.

"I'll just sit in this chair here and rest my eyes for a while," he tells her, as he pulls a beat up armchair next to the bed and lays back in it, stretching his legs over the bedspread on the empty side of the bed.

She watches him, thinking things through. Somehow, she always ended up in weird situations that no one had seemed to encounter before, and this was no different. Yet, this was the safest she'd ever felt with a stranger, in her life. Despite everything that set them apart, there was this unspoken rule, as old as time, that made it possible for broken souls to find and cling to each other, fusing like two sides of a seeping wound.

They'd call him the Antichrist, they'd call her a whore, but no one knew who they really were, the old spirits they carried inside of them, the in-depth look they had on the universe, the way they'd burn life at both ends, somehow being both young and old at the same time, nothing more than travelers in time, carrying with them wisdom that went misunderstood except for the very few that they managed to get through to.

She takes her hand out of the covers and he opens his black-eyeliner smudged lids at the sound of the rustling fabric. "Could you hand me my purse, please? I think I left it on the floor there," she tells him.

He reaches down and grabs the tassel camel suede bag, placing it next to her.

Opening it up, she takes out a notebook, pulling out the pen attached to the cover, as she begins to scribble down inside of it.

"Is that a diary?" he asks curiously.

She shakes her head, smiling softly. "No. Don't have one. This is just my little travel book of poetry. The lyrics to my first major hit album were all written on the road, right in between these pages."

"Poetry, huh?" he says, rubbing his pale chin. "So what particularly inspired you about this cheap ass motel room?" he asks, watching her continue to write away.

"It's not the motel. It's tonight. It's the fact that life gives me experiences like this," she says, gesturing around the room, "with people who randomly step into the picture, like you."

He watches her write another line, rubbing the end of her pen along her bottom lip as she tries to come up with a good verse to follow. The dirty sole of her left foot sticking out of the blanket, a single long feather earring dangling down her neck, peeking from in between the teased hair she's wearing, her white lace dress stained by whiskey around the collar, she looks like a fallen '70s beauty queen, he muses.

She closes the notebook, sliding it down her right arm, a quick flash of the 'Nabokov Whitman' tattoo dedicated to her favorite authors showing before the lace covers her skin once more, as she puts the pen back in her purse.

"Can I see it?" Manson asks.

She declines, handing him the closed bag instead, to put back down. "Not before it's finished. I'm going to send you a demo when I'll record it."

He nods, smiling at her mysteriousness, only adding to her already intoxicating appeal.  
"Alright. Let's get some shut eye now. You'll need to sleep this off," he tells her, dangling the empty bottle of Jack she had carelessly thrown by the foot of the bed.

"Don't run way though, yeah? I don't want to get arrested in here," she tells him.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he assures her, settling back in his chair, his black leather boots resting against the bed.

***

The following morning, Lana gets out of bed, quietly trying to make her way to the bathroom, before she hits the whiskey bottle from the night before, accidentally kicking it into the nightstand, making a racket.

Manson instantly opens his eyes, taking him a minute to remember where he was.

"...I'm such a klutz, sorry," she apologizes, embarrassed.

"Mornin'," he tells her, rubbing his eyes, as he stretches in the horribly uncomfortable chair, his back feeling as stiff as a wooden board. "Isn't it kinda early?" he asks, checking his watch.

"Just needed to use the bathroom," she explains, grabbing her purse with an awkward smile.

"Yeah. Yeah, go ahead. It's probably best we don't hang out here much longer," he points out, worried that someone might catch them.

A few minutes later, she returns from the bathroom, her smudged mascara cleaned off her face, minimal make up replacing last night's mess, everything other than her stained dress making her look presentable enough to the world once again.

Pulling the curtain aside, to make sure that no one was there to see them, Manson suddenly freezes.  
"Oh, shit."

"What is it?" Lana asks.

"You're not going to believe this, but there's a fuckload of paparazzi waiting outside," he says, making room for her to look.

"Christ! How did they even find out?" she asks, surprised.

"Fuck if I know," Manson says, rubbing his face, annoyed. "There's not really that much we can do to avoid them right now, though."

"Damn it. They've got us cornered. No other way than to walk straight into their trap," she says, looking at him.

He nods, staring back at her. "On your go," he tells her, placing his hand over the doorknob.

She takes a deep breath in, then says, "Okay. Let's do it."

The instant they open the door, a billion flashes begin to go off, and the reporters flock around them, hardly giving them any room to advance at all.

"Lana! Lana! Is it true that you and Marilyn are together now?"

"Have you guys been keeping your relationship a secret?"

"Marilyn, did you sleep with her last night?"

Upon hearing the last question, Manson can feel his rage begin to rise. He was used to people taking jabs at him and trying to provoke him, but having the blood-hungry paparazzi begin to insult a girl who was struggling to keep not only her art, but also herself alive, was too much for him to take.

"For your information, she fucked me, okay?" Manson says, taking Lana's hand into his. "My new LP is not doing that great, and I needed someone to help me fix that. She's new talent and she's very in right now, so I figured a bit of controversy would help boost my sales."

Lana just looks at him, a huge grin plastered on her face.

"Plus," he adds, "she said she'd put in a good word for me with the record execs if I ate her out. You know how it is... life's hard... I just fuck my way up to the top, like every other artist worth their salt out there."

Raising his hand, Manson hails the cab driving by.

The car stops a few feet away from the buzzing crowd, and Manson opens the door for the singer.  
She steps inside, but pulls him towards her, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, as she whispers in his ear, "Thank you."

He smiles back. "I hope your next album's going to be an even bigger hit. See? Sometimes you can beat these assholes at their own game. Forget about comfort zones. Cause your own controversy. Be notorious and you'll have them eating out of your palm."


End file.
